


Unattractive

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 22:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21435391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel cleans.
Relationships: Erestor/Glorfindel (Tolkien)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	Unattractive

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Glorfindel has certainly led more glamorous lives than the one he does in Imladris, but he still finds the honest day’s work immensely satisfying. The muddy footprints that he scrubs off the floor weren’t left by any mighty foe, but the clumsy steps of dwarves. The mess caked into the pavement is all a remnant of fun and friendship, things that Glorfindel always hoped would manage to prosper in Middle Earth. His knees ache from resting on the hard ground, his arm sore from scrubbing—it requires more muscle than even his sword training. His hair is a ragged mess bundled up atop his head with simple twine borrowed from another on the cleaning staff. Imladris is stretched to its limits in the wake of the large party of dwarves that swept through like a hurricane, and Glorfindel is quite glad to help out. 

He’s not glad for the crick in his back or the rawness of his palms, but he works through those discomforts. He has only a small section of the house to tidy—a few stray corridors that dip between courtyards. Across the way, he can see Lindir wiping down the walls. Glorfindel can’t help but wonder if Imladris has ever had such a thorough cleaning in its long history. It couldn’t possibly have ever had messier guests. But it will soon be spotless again. They’re all working hard, and Glorfindel is a part of that great synergy, proud to aid his people in even the smallest ways.

He stops scrubbing long enough to wipe the sweat off his brow, and then a shadow falls over him. Glorfindel glances up, then hurriedly pulls back, sitting on his haunches. He can feel his cheeks flushing beneath the dirt. Erestor stands above him, tall and beautiful, just as immaculate as ever. He couldn’t have picked a worst time to show up.

Glorfindel missed one thing in his calculations. He should not have agreed to a location so near to Erestor’s office. He’d been quite hoping Erestor wouldn’t see him at all, not for several days, when he’d had a chance to bath and recover. As it is, he’s easily at his worst—the most disheveled that Erestor has ever seen him. His clothes are the old, discarded scraps of the staff—he hadn’t wanted to sully his good robes. His hair is a frantic mess, unbraided and fraying, caked with dirt from falling down into unfinished spots. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, his arms streaked with dirt. He can feel the dust coating his face. He must look an utter mess, someone wholly unworthy of a lord’s attention.

Erestor isn’t technically a lord. But he’s close enough—he’s Lord Elrond’s right hand. Glorfindel is the one of higher stature, though he currently looks the farthest from it. Erestor looks understandably surprised to see him kneeling. 

Erestor says, “I did not think you would lower yourself to a servant’s work, Lord Glorfindel.”

Blushing thickly, Glorfindel answers, “I am only a soldier. I have always been willing to dirty my hands in order to aid others.”

Erestor is silent for a moment. He folds his hands behind back, posture characteristically rigid.

Then he muses, “Perhaps I will have that drink with you that you are always asking for.” 

Glorfindel’s mouth actually falls open. He’s been courting Erestor for _months_, all with no success, and he’s shown up in exquisitely made robes and golden jewelry littered with the greatest gems. He’s sung all the grandest ballads, lead out the patrol and returned with the heads of monsters, even written Erestor letters full of the words of bards. All to no avail. Now he’s on the floor, soaked in grime, and Erestor tells him, “Come to my office when you have finished.”

Erestor takes a step away, then adds with a sly smile, “There will be no need to change.”

Glorfindel doesn’t waste time questioning it. Erestor walks away at a clipped pace, and Glorfindel resumes scrubbing the floor like the fate of Middle Earth depends on Imladris’ flawless floor.


End file.
